


One Week, Eight Hours

by daggerinrose



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas, Enemies to Lovers, Famous Harry, Interviews, M/M, famous/non-famous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-20 07:40:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13142103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daggerinrose/pseuds/daggerinrose
Summary: Louis doesn’t have a reason to hate Harry Styles (which, to be fair, is a reason of its own.)or: a production assistant with no experience in front of a camera interviews a rockstar with old shoes and a distasteful attitude.





	One Week, Eight Hours

**Author's Note:**

> this was written for @afireforaheart for secret santa this year! happy christmas to you! :)

For nearly half his life, Louis Tomlinson has despised the month of December. Not only is the month infamously known as the most stressful one, but it’s also the one where the air gets a bazillion times colder, the one where wearing ankle socks is a wish for hypothermia, and lastly; the one where he turns a year older.

His best mates Niall and Liam had decided that Louis’ birthday would be better than the last. Better as in, this year they won’t forget it.

"We’ll make it up for ya, Tommo," Niall had said over the phone on Christmas Day, voice slurred due to either a hangover or a new round of eggnog. "Next year, you don’t even have to raise a finger. Me and Payno, we’ll arrange the greatest fucking birthday party. You’ll see."

51 weeks later, Louis is standing in line at the cheapest party shop he could find that was close enough to the studio that he’d have time to buy both plastic cups and banners, while at the same time get coffees for the crew.

There’s only one other person in line, but Louis can’t control the jitter in his leg. Today’s a big day at the studio. Stress will ensue.

He got his job as a production assistant during the summer, and it’s the longest he’s been with any production companies ever. Usually he’s been working as a PA or taken care of the extras on various film sets, but the shooting always ends faster than he can pay his bills.

Working with television has been way different. It’s not as exciting, but at least it’s a steadier job, and he won’t have to travel too much.

Well, if going for coffee runs up to three times a day doesn’t count as traveling.

Louis pays the cashier, and hurries across the street and around the corner until he finally reaches the coffee shop he knows better than his pocket.

The order is the same every time, and buying coffee has come to be just another shift in his gears rather than how it was in the beginning; terrifying, all the uncertainty about whether or not he would make it back to the studio without spilling everywhere.

He somehow manages to balance his tray of coffee and bag of party stuff with him all the way into the studio without spilling a drop, and sets the coffee down where he always puts it, before going to stand in his corner of the studio.

There’s not much people here yet, just a few photographers fiddling with their cameras, another PA scribbling in her notebook, and the producer.

The producer is standing smack dab on the middle of the stage, a crease on her forehead, her fringe turning gray with every word she utters into her phone.

Louis smells trouble.

But Louis does what a PA is supposed to do, and keeps his trap shut until - or if - someone decides to acknowledge him.

"What about Beatrice, then?" the producer stresses out, voice raising with every word. "She’s never busy, is she?"

Louis doesn’t realize he’s staring at her until he receives a murderous death glare, and quickly averts his eyes. Producers are like devils. They probably hide their tails in their pants and cover up their horns with too much hairspray.

It’s not until about ten minutes later, when his legs are aching and his eyes are drooping, that make-up and styling is filing in. Without the interviewer here, they look like a horde of confused sheep, not sure which direction to go. They all end up in a circle after a minute, and starts chattering, confused tilts of tones screeching in Louis’ ears.

"I think Bryan is having a crisis," a voice pipes up from Louis’ right, startling him out of his bubble.

Bryan is the one doing most of the interviews for their news station, the producer’s star, who somehow manages to look tanner during the winter than when the sun is actually out.

"What about Beatrice?" Louis asks the other PA.

She shrugs. "Apparently she’s home with sick kids. They have the flu."

Louis’ about to ask if they’ve called Garret in, but the words get stuck in his throat when the producer strides up to the PA’s, determination as apparent on her face as it is on the finger that is pointed directly at Louis.

"You’ve done interviews before, haven’t you?"

 

—

 

Louis has  _never_ interviewed  _anyone_ before, but his mouth had dried up the minute the question was out the producer’s mouth, and he forgot the difference between nodding and shaking his head.

See, Louis has a doppelgänger colleague, and it’s not the producers fault she can’t tell the PA and boom operator apart, even with their difference in both height, hair colour and massive age gap. Tom the boom operator has his own youtube channel, and has loads of experience talking in front of a camera.

Louis hasn’t. But Louis’ come to learn that he is basically Tom.

So of course this is why Louis is situated in a leather chair with brushes tickling his face in every direction, a card with pre-written questions in his hands, and a half empty glass of water on the table that separates him from the soon to arrive Mr. Harry Styles.

Louis is sweating.

All his life he’s wanted to be an actor, but somehow ended up behind the camera in the end. Being twenty minutes away from being in front of it, opposite an international rock star, is both terrifying and anti-climatic at the same time.

What if he fucks up? Or worse, what if this is the peak of his career?

"You alright?" One of the make-up artists asks absentmindedly, eyes not leaving the tip of her brush.

Louis manages a nod, and a somewhat cranky "Yeah" before someone claps loudly to his right.

The producer steps up. "Remember to smile, remember to shake his hand, don’t let silence go on for too long, make sure he doesn’t ramble, you only have ten minutes with him so be firm as well as interested. Don’t ask him about anything other than what is written on that card. And remember to smile."

Louis blinks. "You already said that."

"Said what?"

"Nothing." Louis stretches his legs out a bit in a weak attempt to cool down.

Worst part is, he can’t even stand Harry Styles. He doesn't exactly have a solid reason for his dislike towards the guy. Harry Styles was just an unfortunate soul who got put in Louis' "don't like" drawer, alongside Jim Carrey and Tom Cruise. Maybe it's jealousy. Jealousy of how put together the rockstars life is in contrast to Louis', despite the fact that Louis' been around longer than the former. Either way, Louis doesn't like him one bit. How the fuck is he supposed to smile and be interested when he despises the guy?

_God._

"He’ll arrive in about five minutes," the producer says, and then she’s gone.

Accepting his fate, there’s nothing else to do, Louis breathes out and reads over his questions again.

Ten minutes later, a much-taller-in-person Harry Styles walks in. He’s dressed in his grandma’s curtains, wears vintage leather shoes from the renaissance, and presses a thousand silver rings into Louis’ palm with a handshake.

"I’m Harry Styles," he greets, as if it was necessary.

"Yes," Louis says dumbly, before shaking himself out of his nervous haze and replies. "Louis. I’ll be interviewing you today."

"Fantastic," the rockstar replies. "Isn’t it?"

Louis blinks at the lame attempt of breaking the ice. He’s luckily saved from the conversation when the producer steps up and takes over, and Louis can’t do anything other than listen to her kiss his arse and drool over his wealth until the sound department takes over and mics Harry up as well.

Sooner than Louis would have wished, cameras starts rolling, and he’s given the okay to start the interview.

_Shit._

Louis stutters his way through an introduction, before getting cut off by the director and gets told to do it one more time.

Thank god this isn’t live. Although, it might as well be given he only has ten minutes with the rockstar with close to no room for fuck-ups.

After managing to introduce Harry Styles, his eyes land on his question card. "How do you like London."

It didn’t come out as a question at all. Might have something to do with the fact that Louis knows Harry Styles has a house in London. He blames the knowledge on brain-eating gossip magazines.

"I live here," Harry replies, eyes squinted.

"We can cut that out," someone yells from behind the cameras, and Louis already wishes this day was over.

"Your new album," Louis starts, trying the best as he can to look Harry in the eye while asking. "It came out this week, didn’t it?"

"Yes," Harry simply answers, eyes still slim at the edges after the previous question.

Louis expects more of an answer, but when he doesn’t get one, he pushes on. "Tell me about it."

For a split-second Harry’s eyes shift to his right, and Louis may not have seen it when they shook hands, but Harry’s looking like he’s at the end of his rope, dark bags under his eyes not even make-up can cover up.

Why would fate give Louis an overworked, annoyed, stuck-up rockstar to interview the very first time he gets remotely close to his dream of being in front of a camera? Why couldn’t he interview Sia? That way they wouldn’t even have to look each other in the eye.

"Have you listened to it?" Harry asks.

And now the stuck-up rockstar is  _challenging_ him. Perfect.

Louis feels the gaze of the producer like a dagger to his neck, and forces a smile. "Of course I have. I even bought copy for my sister as a Christmas present."

Lie. He would never even touch the CD. He might have done so five years ago when he was young and naive, but now he’s getting wiser and older and knows what to stay away from. There’s no way he’d risk handing that garbage over to his little sister.

"Really," Harry muses. "What’s your favorite track?"

Bryan never gets challenged in interviews. It’s never happened, because no celebrity really feels like wasting their energy spitting questions back to the interviewers face given their news station is as significant as a peanut in contrast to the bigger ones.

"Last track’s always my favorite," Louis says after a while, smiling through the lie.

"Why?" Harry questions.

Louis clenches his teeth behind his lips, praying someone will save Louis from being interrogated further by the rockstar he despises even more so now than before they shook hands.

Instead of answering, Louis flicks his gaze down to his next question. "Are you looking forward to touring?"

He might have heard a hissing noise coming from behind him somewhere for dodging Harry’s question.

_"Be firm as well as interested_ ", the producer had said.

"I can’t wait to go see you," Louis adds with a half-winning smile.

Harry cracks a bone in his finger, the noise echoing in the silent room. "Tour got cancelled. Didn’t you hear?"

If Louis was lucky, the lamp above his head would collapse on top of him.

"I’m joking!" Harry exclaims after a while, and precedes to talk about said tour, all while Louis’ skin is burning him alive due to a mix of embarrassment and hatred.

Louis does his best to nod along, and stares at a spot right under Harry’s left eye, not really listening. Someone put too much powder on Harry’s cheek.

After a minute, Louis decides Harry’s talked enough and checks his questions again. All rubbish questions in his opinion. Rubbish questions asking about his rubbish music and even rubbisher personal life. Rubbisher is a word specifically invented to hang over Harry Styles like a dark thunder cloud.

"Let’s talk about Christmas, shall we?" Louis interrupts. "Are you going back to your family’s? Celebrating with friends?" Louis looks up through his lashes, and can’t really stop himself before the next sentence plops out. "Your boyfriend?"

Louis can’t really take it back, and it’s irrelevant whether he wants to or not. Harry’s face falls, and Louis knew that the moment the word "boyfriend" fell out his mouth sirens started blaring headlines about a bad breakup which left Harry Styles heartbroken during Thanksgiving.

"Where will  _you_ be spending Christmas?" Harry shoots back, surprising Louis.

Louis blinks a few times, and decides to read the next question instead, the sound of silent sighs filling the room around them.

"Any go-to Christmas songs?"

Harry leans forward, eyes set on him like he’s a lost reindeer, and Harry’s the wolf. "Where will you be spending Christmas?"

Louis chances a glance towards the producer, who furiously gestures for him to answer.

"Bit of both," Louis says then, drawing a smirk from Harry’s mouth.

"Bit of both family, friends and a boyfriend?" Harry presses.

Louis can’t really control his eye rolling - when his eyes wants to roll, they roll. It’s an understanding the three of them have. "That’s really none of your bloody business, is it?"

A choir of gasps behind the camera. A stone cold stare from Harry Styles. "You asked me first."

"Because I was told to ask you that!" Louis exclaims, digging himself deeper while kissing goodbye to his job in the process.

"Give me that," Harry says, gesturing towards the cards.

"No."

Harry ignores him, and reaches over and snatches the card out of Louis’ hands in a heartbeat, before he starts skimming the questions, an amused smirk playing on the edge of his lips.

After a heated silence, in which Louis makes a plan on how to murder Harry Styles in five easy steps, the latter looks up.

Louis quirks a brow. "Can we just get this over with?"

"You have three minutes," someone says from the sidelines, resignation apparent in their voice.

"Fine," Harry says, and flicks the card back to Louis who just barely manages to catch it in the air.

Louis shuts his anger off for the remaining three minutes of their time together, and focuses on reading the questions, and even manages a quick smile when the three minutes are up.

Harry rushes out of the room the minute his mic is off, and Louis couldn’t be happier.

That is, until the producer meets his eyes.

 

—

 

A week later, Louis’ standing face to face with a cheery Niall, just barely managing to restrain himself from punching his mate in the face.

"You  _what?_ " Louis exclaims, his voice bouncing through the room like a squash ball.

"I booked Harry Styles for the night," Niall repeats, like Louis didn’t hear him the first time. "I didn’t book a loft and invite two hundred people to your party for them to dance along to your emo playlist, Louis.  _I_ am the professional event manager here, not you."

"You started your job last month, Niall!" Louis shoots back. "How the hell did you even get in contact with him, it’s Christmas Eve for fuck’s sake! And I hate him, did I tell you that? I despise him more than Christmas shopping."

Niall’s eyes go round. "You can’t just say that about someone, mate."

"He cost me my job!"

"Oh."

Louis throws his hands up, wondering why fate hates his guts, and what kind of strings Niall pulled to get Louis’ arch enemy to his birthday party.

"Look at it this way," Niall says after a moment. "Those two hundred people I invited? They love him. Your birthday party is going to be legendary! Everybody loves Harry Styles, except for you. Why is that, anyway?"

Louis sighs. "Does there have to be a reason for everything?"

"You can’t hate someone for no reason. Dislike, maybe. Not hate."

The voice of Liam Payne bounces towards them before Louis can answer. "Make love not war!"

"Oh, shut it," Louis hisses, and Liam shrugs it off before turning back to the Christmas tree he’s been decorating for the past hour.

Louis turns back to Niall. "I’ll be in the kitchen pouring alcohol down my throat," Louis announces and plasters on a toothy smile before spinning around and leaving the room.

 

—

 

Eight hours later, the loft is packet with people Louis don’t know the names of. Niall made sure to invite their closest friends, along with their closest friends friends, and their closest friends friends friends, resulting in many unknown faces.

Harry Styles has yet to show up, and it doesn’t surprise Louis if he ditches and refuses to give Niall his money back. The annoying thing is that Louis keeps watching the door, waiting for the rockstar to show up, and gets an annoying twinge of disappointment in his stomach every time anyone that isn’t Harry Styles walks through the door.

"I hate Harry Styles," Louis tells Liam, who is currently slurping up his third beer.

"I know," Liam says.

"Good."

It’s not until half an hour later when the speakers squeak and bore holes through Louis’ ears that he realizes Harry didn’t come in the front door, given he’s standing right there on the stage dressed like a Christmas tree. Louis wants to go up there and rip the green jumpsuit to shreds, and doesn’t bother wondering in which way he meant that, exactly.

A rocky tune Louis’ come to shut off every time it comes on the radio starts blaring, and the voice of Harry Styles fills the room, drawing cheers from the crowd and a weak grunt from Louis’ throat.

He hates him, he really does.

Hates how he moves across the stage, hates how his voice doesn’t break even once, hates how their eyes meet time and time and again throughout the angry song directed towards innocent kiwis.

Louis downs another shot.

"I’m going to take a piss," he announces to no one in particular, but a stranger raises his glass in an go ahead gesture and lets Louis pass.

Louis wouldn’t mind spending his birthday with the toilets. Toilets have been nothing but a comfort for him throughout his life. They let him be alone with them, they let him puke in them, they even let him take a shit in them. If that isn’t true friendship, Louis doesn’t know what is.

He and the toilets are alone for all but ten minutes until the door flies open, and Harry Styles of all people walk in - who has by the way not even broken a sweat.

As Louis keeps repeating; fate hates him.

"I hate you," Louis mutters, gaze fixed on the reflection of Harry in the mirror.

Harry wipes something off his face that’s not really there. "No, you don’t."

Louis spins around. "You got me fired!"

Surprise is the last thing Louis would expect on Harry Styles’ face. But it’s there. "Can they do that?"

"Of course they bloody can, you made me fuck up!"

"But aren’t news anchors treated as gold in your industry?" Harry questions, perplexed. "You can’t get fired."

"I’m a production assistant, you twat. Bryan didn’t show up that day," Louis snarls.

"Oh," Harry says. Then again, like he just got something. " _Oh._ "

"What?" Louis squints his eyes.

Harry takes a step forward, and if Louis wasn’t ignoring it he would have seen the regret on the other boy’s face, and felt the rush of blood in his veins at the closer inspection of his deep, green eyes.

"I didn’t know. I’m sorry," Harry says, and it actually sounds like he  _genuinely_ means it.

"I still want to punch you in the face," Louis says.

Harry makes some deep, vibrating, honey-like noise, and Louis doesn’t realize he’s laughing until he’s toe to toe with the taller boy.

"Let me make it up to you," Harry says.

Harry Styles may not look like he’s sweating, but Louis can smell it vaguely through the other million different scents the rockstar carries - strawberry, beer, aftershave, snow, spruce.

"How?"

"Tell me what you want, and I can give it to you."

"Like awful jumpsuits?" Louis asks and gives Harry’s outfit a pointed look.

Harry chuckles lowly, and his smirk stays on when he speaks again. "Anything."

Louis tilts his head, and gives the rockstar a sly smile. "I want you to stay off the stage for the rest of the night."

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up, but his smile stays put. "You don’t like my music much, do you?"

"I just don’t like you," Louis corrects.

"What is it that you don’t like about me? There has to be a reason," Harry points out, just like Niall did.

Louis considers the question for a while, and is grateful for all the shots he’s downed this evening. "Don’t like you in that jumpsuit."

Harry rises his brows again. "Oh?"

Louis shakes his head, and reaches a hand out to pull at the green fabric. "Should get this off."

They’re both quiet for a moment, no sound to be heard but the bass booming through the wall and the water running through the pipes.

Harry is the one who breaks the silence, a smirk sitting higher on his lips, eyes curious, and a radiance that sings it’s first verse of recklessness. "Your place or mine?"


End file.
